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FlSHIN' <POEMS 

AND OTHERS 



W. 



of the ^Burlin&ton, Iowa, Notary Club 




^ 






DEDICATED 

To the Members of c Rotary throughout the World 

and to the 

Members of the Notary Club 

of ^Burlin^ton, Iowa 

in particular 



Copyright 1921 

(By <T?hil F. Carspecken 

^Burlin&ton, Iowa 

Published by ^BURLINGTON <ROTARY CLUB 
^Burlin&ton, Iowa 



JAN -3 1922 




PHOTOGRAPH BY WASHBURN 



THE Mississippi slouch ( pronounced in the middle west 
sloo, not slou) is not always, as its name mi&ht imply, 
a bo&&y, miry region. Slou&hs are generally formed 
by back-water from the Mississippi, but many of them have 
running water, and occasionally you will find one fed by 
springs, and the water at certain times of the year as clear as 
a miniature lake— a veritable fisherman's paradise. 






Forewords 



c Uhe (Burlington (Rotary Club 
takes pleasure in presenting to 
its members, and to Interna- 
tional (Rotary, this booklet — 
from the pen of a real Rotarian. 



(Burlington (Rotary Club 



^Burlington, Iowa 

(December 25, 1921 




PHOTOGRAPH BY WASHBURN 



THE LURE OF THE SLOUGH 



I have fished with fair success in northern lake and mountain stream, but 
for the fisherman who derives from this greatest of all sports something more 
than the actual number of fish captured, the wild and almost inaccessible 
Mississippi river slouch possesses a charm entirely unique. I have in mind a 
languid slouch hidden in the timber, miles from any human habitation, where 
the wily bass lurks beside the sunken lo&, the vivacious crappie sports amon& 
the sna&s, and the iridescent sun-fish darts hither and yon — mostly yon. Lest 
an exodus of fishermen incontinently fall upon my favorite fishing spot, its exact 
location shall not be divulged, but it suffices to say that it can be found only 
with the aid of a compass and a &uide, and a car that will thread a precarious 
and tortuous way alon& an untraveled road leading thru treacherous swamps 
and strewn with hidden stumps. Here I have spent many a ni&ht rolled up in 
a blanket by a camp-fire, lulled to rest by nature's symphony of fro&s and owls 
and insects — a lonely, God-forsaken place when the shadows fall. When you wake 
up in the wee small hours of the morning, and the fire is flickering low, and a 
ghostly mist is hovering over the slou&h, and the silence is broken only by an 
occasional fish flopping out of the water, sending a little shiver down your 
spine, and the owls tune up, and the bull-fro&s are booming — your thoughts are 
far from frivolous, to say the least. Did you ever lie awake at ni&ht listening 
to the booming of the bull-fro&s ( not the pond variety, but the bi& fellows with 
the deep bass voice) that haunt the unfrequented slou&hs? — — — 



WHEN THE BULL-FROGS ARE A-BOOMING 
UP THE SLOUGH 

When the camp-fire flickers lower and the branches overhead 
Keep a-rustlin& in the ni&ht-wind like the spirits of the dead, 
And the moon that you've been watching disappears behind a cloud, 
And a mist han&s o'er the water like a ghostly kind of shroud; 
Then you think of wife and kiddies who are snu& at home in bed, 
And regret the harsh things spoken, and the words of love unsaid, 
And a loneliness creeps o'er you like a subtle a&ony, 
And you wish your pal would waken, for your soul craves company — 
When the bull-fro&s are a-boomin& up the slouch. 

Then the little business worries and the troubles of the day 
Seem to lose all their importance and to gently fade away, 
And you think of the Hereafter and the man you mi&ht have been, 
Had you wooed old Mother Nature more, and less the city's din. 
For this silent self-communion, as you lie there on the sod, 
When the shades of ni&ht have fallen, brings you closer to your God, 
And you realize the emptiness of all you've striven for, 
And your soul expands and vainly strives to glimpse the other shore — 
When the bull-frog,s are a-boomin^ up the slou&h. 

When my fishing days are over, and my soul is wafted hence 
To the better land, I hope I'll have some fitter recompense 
Than the harps and robes and streets of pearl that some folks call to mind 
When they try to picture Heaven — such to me would be unkind. 
^But I know there is a Heaven that is radiant and fair, 
And I know the kind Creator answers all our lon&in&s there, 
And the Paradise I dream of, where I hope to rest my soul, 
Will include among, its pleasures a Celestial fishing hole — 
Where the bull-fro&s are a-booming, up the slouch. 



THAT FISHING <PAL OF MINE 

As I glance back o'er the fitful years I've squandered here on earth, 
And endeavor from the dismal mess to glean some things of worth, 
There is nothing yields me quite the joy, or nearer makes amends 
For the record of my failures, than the memories of my friends. 
^But I single out one friendship that is rarest of them all, 
And I thrill with exaltation as its pleasures I recall, 
For there's heart-glow and there's heart-balm that I cannot quite define 
In the friendship that I cherish for that fishing pal of mine. 

Full many a time we've sallied forth and left our cares behind, 
In the early hours of morning, driving roads that dip and wind, 
And our years all seemed to fall away — our souls anew were born 
As we viewed the glorious sunrise o'er the fields of ripened corn, 
For the rarest charms of Nature are revealed on every hand 
When the morning mists are lifting, from the fertile bottom-land; 
And the tang of roadside weeds and fields of clover was as wine 
Which I sipped in mute communion with that fishing, pal of mine. 

Oh, the wondrous days, the joyous days, 'neath skies of azure blue, 
That we whiled away together up the wild and silent slough ! 
And we listened to the distant sullen booming of the frogs 
As we trolled for lurking bass beneath the sunken, moss-grown logs ; 
And we watched the gaunt and stately crane go skimming up the stream, 
And beneath the limpid waters saw the darting fishes gleam ; 
Oh, this life holds nothing dearer than the memories that intwine 
And cluster 'round those moments with that fishing pal of mine ! 

And a spell was cast upon us with the fall of ev'ning gloam, 

For we grew more confidential as we slowly wended home, 

And we talked of many things besides the catches of the day, 

Or the estimated bigness of the Ones that Got Away; 

For we learned each other's sorrow and we glimpsed each other's soul, 

And we bared our inmost feelings as we left that fishing hole, 

And our hearts warmed toward each other — Oh, I've seen affection shine 

In the kindly, wind-tanned face of that old fishing pal of mine ! 

And recalling all those wondrous days, it seems that it must be 
That a comradeship thus formed will last thru all Eternity; 
And perforce the day will come when you or I, old pal, must go 
On a journey thru the Valley where the chilling waters flow; 
And if first the summons comes to me, I'm very sure my soul 
Will straightway seek the beauties of our favorite fishing hole, 
And traveling out the Bottom Road, with bait and pole and line, 
My soul will still be at your side — old fishing pal of mine ! 

Oh, you men of fame and men of wealth and men of big affairs, 

You may think your gold will buy you some surcease from worldly cares, 

But you'll find life's vain distractions only serve to pall and cloy, 

And the pleasures of the crowd will yield but superficial joy; 

For despite the social whirl the soul is lonely and apart, 

And it languishes and suffers from a hunger of the heart ; 

And you'll never sense the wonder of a joy that's all divine 

Till you taste the fervent friendship of a fishing pal like mine ! 



THE WITCHERY OF THE WILD 

You may think you know your fellow as you meet him every day, 

And exchange the usual &reetin& in the customary way, 

<T3ut you haven't scratched the surface — you have failed to penetrate 

The shell he's built about him since he g,rew to man's estate ; 

For his soul is all unsounded, and his heart's a mystery, 

And he moves behind the curtain of conventionality. 

Yet below this baffling surface lurks the fervor of a child — 

You will never understand him 'til you &et him in the wild. 

When you strip him of his city duds and take him out with you 

To the pathless woods and silent stream, and camp a week or two, 

Clear away from ties that link him to his multiplied affairs, 

Far away from scenes that sink him in the sea of business cares, 

All surrounded by the jungle, wild and lonely, and apart 

From the things that cramp and hinder him — then watch him spill his heart ! 

For beneath his stern exterior dwells the ardor of a child — 

You will never sound his heart-strings 'til you &et him in the wild. 

"When the evening meal is over, and you li&ht your pipes, and lay 
In your blankets by the camp-fire, swapping fish-yarns of the day; 
As the shadows slowly deepen in the jungle solitude, 
And the voices of the ni&ht induce the meditative mood, 
Then he bares his inmost feelings — secrets you alone may hear, 
And he stands revealed before you stripped of all the world's veneer, 
For away down in his nature there's the candor of a child — 
You will never learn to love him 'til you &et him in the wild. 



FISHERMAN'S ^REVERIE 

When all nature lies a-sleepin£, and the bli^htin^ frost is creeping, 

With the chill of Death o'er woods and field and stream, 
And the skies are dark and scowling, and the wintry winds are howling, - 

Then I love to sit beside the fire and dream. 
And I feel within me burning a persistent, nameless yearning 

For a jaunt along, a dusty, winding road, 
To a languid slouch that's sleeping in the timber, where the leaping 

Of the bass proclaims the finny tribe's abode. 
I can hear the drowsy murmur of the insects, and the firmer 

Note of woodland songsters calling o'er the slouch ; 
I can see the willows waving over waters that are laving 

Verdant shores all £reen and fresh with morning dew. 
I can see my bobber dancing in a manner all entrancing 

As it g,aily rides the sparkling, sunlit waves ; 
I can hear the bull-fro&s booming, I can smell the wild flowers blooming — 

I can picture all those scenes my nature craves. 
And while thus my fancy wanders, bleak and cold the north wind thunders, 

And the snow is drifting, hig,h outside the door ; 
But tho winter winds beat harder, they can never cool the ardor 

That recalls those wondrous fishing, trips of yore. 
And as dreamily I ponder o'er those joyous days, I wonder 

When the spring-time comes a&ain, as come it must, 
Will it find me, hope still sprin^in^ in a heart that's ever sin£in£, 

With my pole and tackle, jog,g,in£ thru the dust, 
To the languid sloug,h that's sleeping in the timber, where the leaping 

Of the bass adds animation to the view; 
Where the willows still are waving over waters that are laving 

Verdant shores all g,reen and fresh with morning dew ? 



MY NEIGHBOR'S CAR AND MINE 

My neighbor drives a classy and luxurious sedan — 

His greatest pleasure seems to be to keep it spick-and-span; 
He never drives it in the rain for fear that it will rust, 
And with a feather-duster he removes the flecks of dust. 

With sponge and cloth and chamois-skin he shines it every day, 
And drives about the city in a stately kind of way; 
Or, if he ventures out of town, you'll find he never fails 
To keep his polished chariot on the marked and beaten trails. 
And no one can deny it is a pretty thin& to see — 
And yet, somehow, my neighbor's car does not appeal to me. 

The battered boat I drive about has lost its pristine gjow — 

To look at it you would not think the poor old wreck would &o; 

All scratched and marred and travel-stained, it looks the very deuce, 
But nobly has she weathered through two seasons of abuse. 
And every week I pile it hi&h with junk of every sort, 
Like boots and bait and seines and poles, and other things of sport, 
And drive thru swamps and jungles, with a fishing-pal or two, 
O'er highways all uncharted, to a God-forsaken slouch. 
And when she brings me home at ni&ht, thru darkness, storm and flood, 
I use no feather-duster — I just shovel off the mud! 

The car my neighbor drives is just the thin&, we will a&ree, 
To drive some dainty ladies to some dainty social tea; 

Immaculate, it threads its way 'mon&st cars of lowly breed, 
Its engine breathing softly, like some rare and blooded steed. 
The modest car I ramble in is of a rougher sort — 
While socially she's down and out, she's mighty fine for sport; 
She brings into my life the boundless pleasure of a child, 
She takes me from the beaten path and links me with the wild. 
And while I much admire my neighbor's car, with &loss and shine, 
I have a downright love for that old fishing-bus of mine. 

Thus cars are almost human and reflect the owner's mood, 
And &ive us all an insight to his mental attitude. 

For some men run to polish and refinements and display — 
They move in &litt'rin& circles and they ply the beaten way; 
While others in a rougher and a wilder mould are cast, 
And carelessly they run their course ere youth itself is past. 
Their way is full of detours, and they set a &rindin& pace 
Up dizzy heights, thru ruts and swamps — a wild and furious race. 
They garner many glorious thrills— and much of stress and strife ; 
They hit the junk-pile sooner — but they sip the cream of life. 



ODE TO A PIPE 

(A "Three-B," 1915 Vintage) 

Old friendly briar, whose carbon-crusted bowl 

Contains sweet balm to soothe the troubled soul, 

Of thee I sin&— a homely topic, true, 

And one the classic highbrows all eschew. 

Homer may sin& of battles, Byron of love, 

'Dante of hell, Milton of realms above ; 

To easier grasped and lowlier themes I lean — 

My muse hath soaked itself in Nicotine. 

What tho my wife detest thy pungent smell, 

And rail at thee, and raise domestic hell, 

Still do I swear by thee, and tune my lyre 

To sin& the modest virtues of the briar. 

Thou art not fair to look upon, and yet 

Unlike the pert and sporty cigarette 

And more pretentious brother, the ci&ar, 

Which yield brief pleasure, then are cast afar — 

I take thee up a dozen times a day, 

And find thee sweeter than when laid away. 

Women and Wealth and Fame are sweet indeed, 

And framed to answer every mortal need, 

And yet not all — to that I here dissent, 

For thou alone can'st brin& me sweet content. 

^Root of all pleasure, thou hast ever been 

To me a boon companion, pureed of sin, 

For tho thou brin&est cheer and wholesome laughter, 

Thou hast no come-back of the "morning after." 

Have I not &one on many a fishing trip 

With thee, and thee alone, upon my hip? 

And camping in the woodland solitude, 

Thou hast induced the meditative mood, 

And when the shades of ni&ht have fall'n, the &low 

From out thy blackened bowl hath made me &row 

More chummy with my pal, more frank and free 

To bare for him the very soul of me ; 

For there is that about thee thaws the ice 

That cramps the hearts of men as in a vice. 

When other friends &row cold, we know not why, 
And all the world seems twisted and awry, 
And funds &row low, and business shot to hell — 
With thee between my teeth, why, all is well ! 
Old friendly briar, thy carbon-crusted bowl 
Hath bred in me a philosophic soul, 
And tho all else &o wron&, I'll not repine, 
With thee to calm the troubled heart of mine. 



10 



Have any of you Rotarians a "Little Feller" in your home? I have — and 
he &ave us quite a scare recently. A parent's soul undergoes some indescrib- 
able torments — 

WHEN THE "LITTLE FELLER'S" ILL 

All the world seems draped in shadows that are somber-like and g,rey, 

And you g,o about your business in an absent-minded way; 

And your former aims seem trifling,, and the only thing, worth while 

Is that Billion Dollar laddy with the Million Dollar smile. 

And you eat your meals in silence, and your heart with dread expands 

As your eye seeks out the corner where his empty hig,h-chair stands ; 

For your soul is strangely smitten, and a numbing, dead'nin& chill 

Seems to &rip your very heart-strings — when the "Little Feller's" ill. 

'Then a shadow seems to lurk in every room, on every face, 
And a solemn kind of stillness seems to hover o'er the place, 
And it centers in the bedroom where he lies, so frail and white, 
With the "Little Feller's" Mother bravely wa£in& still the fi&ht. 
And you scatter toys upon the bed, and strive to coax a smile 
From the wan and wasted features — with an aching heart the while, 
For you know in times of sickness there's one place you cannot fill, 
And he only wants his Mother when the "Little Feller's" ill. 

Comes the crisis, when the fever seems to blast the one you love; 
Then, as needle to the pole-star, turns your soul to God above, 
And you cast aside your cloak of pride — with scalding, blinding tears 
You supplicate the God to whom you haven't prayed for years ; 
And you promise if He'll only pull that "Little Feller" thru, 
You will be a better man and lead the life He wants you to; 
For you never know your helplessness and need of God until 
Grim Death peers in the window — and your "Little Feller's" ill! 

But at last there comes the day when gladness g,lows in every face, 
And he occupies his hig,h-chair in his old accustomed place ; 
And the family cluster all about to watch him smile once more, 
As he did before the fever seared the winsome look he wore; 
And you wait upon his every wish, and humor every whim, 
For you cannot do enough to just express your love for him, 
And little does he know your soul has plumbed the depths of hell, 
As you &aily hover 'round him when the "Little Feller's" well! 



11 



^PARTING 

On crowded street, in busy mart, 
When from our dearest friends we part, 
An optimism fills the heart 

Than which there is no greater ; 
There is no tin&e of sorrow then — 
We know full well we'll meet a&ain, 
It may be soon— we know not when — 

"Well, so lon& — see you later." 

How casually the words are said! 
And still before the day is sped 
The one of us may yet be dead, 

For Death's a stern Dictator; 
^But cheerfully we meet and part, 
On crowded street, in busy mart, 
And voice the hope that's in our heart— 

"Well, so lon£ — see you later." 

It cannot be that Death's the end, 
For somewhere just around the bend 
I'll meet with you a^ain, my friend, 

And join our kind Creator; 
So when my Summons comes some day, 
Don't grieve that I am called away, 
Just clasp me by the hand and say — 

"Well, so lon& — see you later." 



To GEO. H. WASHBURN, Optimist, and ^Possessor of the 
Secret of Eternal Youth — 

" — a friend, 
"Whom I shall join around the bend." 



12 



"^PARTING" 

(Mournfully dedicated to the fish captured by the writer, inserted 
for safe-keeping in the mouth of a &unny-sack, and which gleefully 
departed th ru a hole in the other end, on October 1, 1921.) 

I hooked you fair, and landed you 

Upon the shore — I never knew 

The sack had two holes (I've no clue 

Who was the perpetrator;,) 
^But out the other end you fled, 
And &aily up the slouch you sped 
And flipped your tail, and cooly said — 

"Well, so lon& — see you later!" 

Of all cruel words those were the worst, 
I thought my heart would surely burst, 
I tore my hair and wildly cursed 

Like some Red agitator ; 
^ut swiftly up the slouch you swam, 
And didn't seem to &ive a damn, 
Just sent that wireless telegram— 

"Well, so lon& — see you later!" 

It cannot be you're &one for ay, 
There'll come a reck'nin^, bye and bye, 
Anon I'll meet you in a fry, 

With slaw and roast "pertater;" 
So when your Summons comes some day, 
I'll wa&er you'll not &et away, 
Nor have another chance to say — 

"Well, so lon& — see you later!" 



13 



FAME 

(NEWS ITEM: "Recommendation that a 7,000 foot peak in the La Toosh 
Ran£e, Rainier National ^Park, be named Lane ^eak in honor of Franklin K. 
Lane, former Secretary of the Interior, has been forwarded to the National 
Geographic Board by the Rainier Park Advisory Board. The peak was 
described as one of the most beautiful in the park.") 

When from his station of proud acclaim, 

Death coldly beckons the man of fame, 

Fitting it is that the world should seek 

To 'blazon his name on the towering peak ; 

Hi&h in the clouds, midst the thunder's crash, 

Revealed to our &aze by the lightning's flash. 

In lofty circles he moved when here, — 

His fame should be witnessed from far and near. 

Name all your peaks for the famous few — 

No one be&rud&es this thin& ye do. 

^ut what of the army of faithful souls 
Whose record is writ in the humbler scrolls — 
The weary millions, who grimly face 
The deadening, £rind of the commonplace ? 
Manfully striving from day to day 
To prove of their worth in their humble way ; 
Their virtues unknown save to God on hi&h — 
Obscurely they live and obscurely die. 
Worthy of praise, tho' of common clay — 
Are there no mountains for such as they? 

***** 

I wot of a place that is seldom trod 

By the feet of man ; where the virgin sod 

Declines to the bank of a placid stream 

Where the darting fishes shimmer and &leam. 

Silent and sheltered, obscurely set 

In the heart of the wilds, unknown as yet 

To au&ht but a favored few imbued 

With love for this sylvan solitude. 

To others I yield all the peaks that be — 

This modest spot ye may name for me. 



14 



WHEN THE q)USK BEGINS TO FALL 

There are many solemn moments in the fitful lives of men, 
When the soul is bathed in shadows undefined by tongue or pen, 
And your efforts all seem squandered and your talents misapplied, 
And the things that you have builded only driftwood on the tide 
That is ever sweeping onward to a vast and wreck-strewn sea 
Where the fruit of all our toil becomes a mere nonentity. 
'TBut of all these somber periods, there is one exceeds them all — 
When you're lyin& on a sick-bed and the dusk begins to fall. 

As with fevered brow and aching eyes you watch the dyin& day, 
And you hear upon the street the care-free children at their play, 
And the autos rushing, swiftly by with pleasure-seeking folk, 
Who honk their horn with ribald scorn, and lau&h and sin& and joke; 
Then it seems that all the pulsing world is rushing on pell-mell, 
And that you alone have fallen by the wayside for a spell, 
Where you languish, weak and weary, and you tire of life and all, 
As you lie upon your sick-bed and the dusk begins to fall. 

It is then the evil deeds you've done like phantoms taunt the soul, 
And the things for which you've striven seem a vain and worthless &oal 
And you wonder how you'll average up on that last Judgment Day 
When the record you have made while here is put upon display; 
And the only bit of comfort you can &et is that perhaps 
There'll be thrown into the reckoning your human handicaps. 
And I hope I will not falter when with face turned to the wall 
I shall lie on my last sick-bed and the dusk begins to fall. 

June 21, 1921. cMalaria. 

C P. S. "And the next day the sun was shining, 'neverythinfe! " 



15 



THE JOURNEY'S END 

It's a rare exhilaration when you start out in your car, 

On some bright and balmy morning, and &o touring trails afar, 

Over ways you never plied before, thru towns all strange and new — 

An enchanting panorama passing, swiftly in review. 

Then your motor seems to leap with joy and sin& a lilting air, 

And your soul expands in unison with thrills beyond compare. 

It's a rare exhilaration for the man behind the wheel, 

But it cannot quite compare with that sweet pleasure that you feel 

When your engine's humming homeward near the journey's end. 

There's a restless, roving spirit rules the auto vagabond, 
And it leads him ever onward to the unknown trail beyond ; 
But despite this nameless yearning for the distant open road, 
Deep implanted in his nature is the love of his abode. 
And altho he boasts of mileage he has piled up with his car, 
And of pleasure he has gotten from extended tours afar, 
If you sound his soul you'll find his keenest joy was when he drew 
Near the place where first the old familiar landmarks came in view, 
And his engine humming homeward near the journey's end. 

For the trails of life are not all smooth and paved as we desire, 
But are fraught with many detours that are devious and dire, 
And they lead through murky regions where we meet with storm and flood, 
And treacherous, sunken quagmires where the soul is mired in mud; 
And the way is strewn with dismal wrecks of cars of yesterday 
That could not stand the &ruellin& pace and fell beside the way. 
For many a hope is punctured there, and many skid to &rief, 
And there's naught in all the weary &rind compares with our relief 
When the soul is wending homeward near the journey's end. 



16 



THE HEART CLUTCH 

Did you ever notice how, when we attain to man's estate, 
Our friends all wish upon us a cognomen more sedate? 
Tliey amputate our first name, and they hook a "Mister" on, 
And pretty soon our first name is a thin& that's dead and ^one- 
Just a relic of our boyhood — something that we ponder o'er, 
When our memories hearken backward to the joyous days of yore, 
When they called us 

Sam, 

or Tom, 

or Bill, 

or Phil. 

'Did you ever notice also how you warm up and unbend, 

On the rather rare occasions when you chance to meet a friend 

Who hails you by your first name, all formality aside, 

As they did before they "Mistered" you and made you dignified? 

You feel a heap more genial— not so lonely and apart, 

For it kind of &ets beneath your shell and clutches at your heart, 

When they call you 

Sam, 

or Tom, 

or Bill, 

or Phil. 

It makes my heart rejoice to see the warmth of Notary 

Succeed in thawing out our artificial dignity. 

It's pulling down the barriers of class and clique and clan, 

And drawing ever closer to the Brotherhood of Man. 

We will know our fellows better, and more fully understand 

The troubles that perplex them, and extend a helping hand, 

If they call us 

Sam, 

or Tom, 

or Bill, 

or Phil. 



17 



THE VACATION QUESTION 

As the swelt'rin& days and sleepless nights of summer time draw near, 
To the man of means the query comes, Where shall I &o this year? 
And he reads thru charming booklets where it pictures lakes and hills 
Where the cooling mountain breezes brin& relief to summer's ills. 
As for me, somehow I cannot quite decide on my resort — 
I have thought of California, Colorado and Newport, 
But at last I have concluded I'll remain in ^Burlin&ton, 
For the very simple reason that I haven't &ot the "mon." 

I never could quite understand why traveling is the style — 

I have always thought it tiresome, and the hotel fare is vile ; 

And just pause and think how frequent has become the railroad wreck — 

You may start to &o to Manitou and land upon your neck ! 

The traveler takes a fearful risk, and one can't say it's nice 

To leave home packed in a Pullman berth and come back packed in ice ! 

No, to me it seems the wise course is to stay in tBurlin&ton — 

There's another weighty reason, too — I haven't &ot the "mon." 

I could never see much pleasure in frequenting &ay hotels, 

Where you loaf around in white duck pants and mingle with the swells ; 

I can have a deal more sport by slipping on my overalls, 

And driving out of town some miles when the fishing fever calls. 

We have hills and dales and woods and streams and beauty spots galore, 

And the mighty Mississippi flows before our very door. 

For a mighty fine vacation there's no place like cBurlin&ton — 

Or at least that's my opinion when I haven't &ot the "mon." 

When I come to look about me and I see upon the street 
The laborer sweating grimly thruout all the summer's heat ; 
The humble clerk and factory &irl, who toil in mute despair, 
The housewife o'er the kitchen stove who &asps in the stifling air ; 
That weary and patient army in whose task there comes no break, 
Who never breathed the mountain air nor glimpsed the northern lake — 
When I think of all these plodding folk who stay in Burlington, 
It reminds me there are others, too, who haven't &ot the "mon." 



18 



CONFESSION 

"Now, I lay me down to sleep; 
"I pray thee, Lord, my soul to 



to keep 



I cease my work and bow my head ; 
A solemn stillness fills the air, 
As, kneeling at his Mother's knee, 
My boy repeats that old, old prayer. 
The simple words are glorified 
And breathe a spirit all divine; 
And, rising from those childish lips, 
They touch this hard old heart of mine. 
They waft me back to childhood days 
When I was wont at ni&ht to kneel 
And utter that same prayer, for then 
My faith was strong and God was real. 
And, Oh, the sense of peace and rest 
They brought to me at close of day ! 
<T3ut now— the words seem meaningless, 
And God is va&ue and far away. 

" — If I should die before I wake, 
"I pray thee, Lord, my soul to take." 

Far better had it been for me 
If I had died before the day 
I lost that precious childhood faith 
And learned to doubt and ceased to pray. 
This life has brought me many things 
That I esteemed of worth, and yet 
How paltry seem they to me now! 
How trite, and tinned with vain regret! 
Some knowledge of the ways of men — 
(Experience gained at bitter cost !) 
Some worldly &oods of trifling worth — 
These have I gained — what have I lost ? 
That near companionship with God — 
The consciousness of bein& led 
By One who loves; and peace of soul 
And simple faith — all, all have fled. 

Unhappy is the soul that seeks 
To analyze its faith, until 
Too late we realize 'tis &one 
And cannot be regained at will. 
Oh, boy of mine, you little know 
How priceless is that faith of thine ! 
If guarded well, 'twill brin& to thee 
A peace that no more can be mine. 



19 



THE q)REAM CHILD 

Childless and old and desolate, 

As my hopes with my years decline, 
Close to my heart I cherish the thought 

Of a little dream child of mine. 
Only a creature of fancy, 

Conceived of my hopes and dreams, 
He &rew to a living presence 

And shared all my plans and schemes. 
He should bear my name and my likeness, 

And have all my money could buy; 
We should be ever the best of pals, — 

That little dream child and I. 
For years I waited and hoped and prayed 

That God would send him to me, 
<TBut all in vain, for my dream child dwells 

In the land of "Not To Be." 
The years have fled and my hope is dead, 

And I've almost ceased to mourn 
For the dearest wish of my inmost soul — 

My little dream child, unborn. 
And yet ofttimes my fancy roams 

To that land of "Not To Be," 
Where a winsome brown-eyed laddy calls 

And beckons afar to me. 
My eyes &row dim, and my old heart warms 

With a boundless love, and it seems 
That nothing can fill the void in my life 

^ut that little child of my dreams. 



20 



THE MODERN GOBLIN 

We ^Rotarians have long, a&o graduated from that impressionable period of 
boyhood when goblins, ghosts and witches entered largely into our speculations, 
and yet many of us can doubtless recall the time when our hair would stand on 
end when our elders would read aloud G ust before bedtime, usually) Whitcomb 
Riley's "Little Orphant Annie," where the poet draws a vivid and terrifying 
picture of the little boy "who wouldn't say his prayers," and of the little girl 
who would "alius laugh and grin," and of their sudden exit, via the goblin route, 
winding up with the grewsome refrain — 

"An' the Gobble-uns'll git you, if you don't watch out!" 

For me (and doubtless for countless other motorists) the goblin still exists, 
altho in a slightly altered form. He now prowls about on a motorcycle, with a 
star on the inside of his coat, and converses in a curt and summary manner, 
frequently wounding the feelings of mild and inoffensive motorists who cross 
his path and incur his displeasure. When I encounter him in my peregrina- 
tions he strikes the same terror to my heart as did the goblin of my boyhood, 
and I live in constant fear that some dark night he will "git me," as he "got" 
numerous of my friends. So— 

Before you drive your auto out and venture on your way, 

In silent meditation bow your head and humbly pray 

That Providence will guide you thru the labyrinth of laws 

Revised by some pedestrians to make the motorist pause. 

Examine well your auto lights — be sure that they are fit, 

And jump out every block or so to see that they are lit. 

And don't forget your Klaxon — see it has the proper tone, 

For if it sharps or fiats a bit, 'twill cost you many a bone. 

And when you come to park your car, just watch what you're about — 

For the motor-cop'll get you 

If you 

Don't 

Watch out ! 

Once there was a motorist who "alius laughed and grinned," 

And held to scorn the auto laws — against them all he sinned. 

He didn't watch his lights at night, his Klaxon wouldn't toot; 

He speeded something awful, and he didn't g,ive a hoot. 

His friends all gravely warned him, but he simply wouldn't quit, 

So one dark night they grabbed him when his tail-light wasn't lit. 

He argued and he pleaded, and he cussed a bit, but shucks ! 

They hauled him down before the Judge and soaked him 'leven bucks. 

Just heed this solemn warning now, and watch what you're about — 

For the motor-cop'll get you 

If you 

Don't 

Watch out ! 

So read your "Auto Laws" at night before you go to bed, 

And memorize some passages and ponder what you've read. 

And in the morning when you rise just clasp your hands and say, 

"I'll be a very humble little motorist today." 

And cultivate the humble mien and deferential mood, 

And practice self-abasement, 'til your spirit is subdued; 

For when you meet the motor-cop you've got to make him feel 

There's a suppliant and contrite heart behind the steering wheel. 

In apologetic manner, like some craven creep about — 

For the motor-cop'll get you 

If you 

Don't 

Watch out ! 

21 



To my mind there is nothing more pathetic than withered roses, fondly 
associated with some momentous event in one's life, and treasured up during, the 
departed years. When one unexpectedly comes upon them, they call up a flood 
of memories too sacred for expression. 

ROSES 

Roses, all faded and withered, 

Their beauty and fragrance fled; 
Crumbling here in their resting place 

Like the dust of forgotten dead. 

Roses, once radiant with beauty 

Caught from the sunshine and air; 
Fresh and pure as the &irl I loved, 

And breathing a perfume rare. 

Roses, worn by the &irl I won, 

On the day she became my bride ; 
Our love survives the departed years — 

But the roses withered and died. 

Roses, all faded and crumbling, 

Dead emblems of youthful bliss ; 
Thank God for the thought that comforts — 

Our love shall not perish like this ! 



22 



TO OUR WIVES 

"He Profits Most Whose Wife Serves Best!" 

(Bein& the Sentiments of the Married Members of the 
Burlington Rotary Club) 

We may boast of the things we have builded, 

Thru stru^&le and strife and turmoil, 
And exult o'er successes all gilded 

With &old from the mint of our toil ; 
Our achievements may warrant our "crowing," 

<T3ut if we look back thru our lives, 
We will find there is much that is owin& 

Those dear silent partners — our wives. 

Tho their power is unostentatious 

(A guidance we scarcely can feel), 
Yet their influence, winning and gracious, 

Is felt in each bi& business deal ; 
For behind each kind impulse correcting, 

And each worthy thought that survives, 
You will find them, still gently directing — 

Those dear silent partners — our wives. 

They condole when our schemes all miscarry, 

They praise each success of the day, 
They revive the tired footsteps that tarry, 

They call back the footsteps that stray; 
They uplift us a&ain when we're beaten, 

They soothe us in times of turmoil, 
They refine our crude ways, and they sweeten 

A life that &rows &rimy with toil. 

So here's to the wives of Rotarians 

(And wives of all &ood men and true) , 

Without them we'd all be barbarians — 
Let's honor where honor is due. 



23 



"GEORGE" 

Oh, little lad with eyes of blue ! 
The April day we welcomed you 
We realized and understood 
The wondrous joy of Parenthood. 

We thanked the gracious God above 
For you — a miracle of Love ; 
No words can voice the boundless joy 
We felt in you, our blue-eyed boy. 

Untarnished is thy soul today — 
No sordid past stands in thy way; 
And yet perforce there'll come to thee 
Temptation — such is God's decree. 

Oh, little boy with eyes of blue, 
With soul so pure and heart so true- 
When first you learn the ways of men, 
Oh, little boy, God &uide you then! 

My early hopes and plans have met 
With many a crushing blow, and yet 
The things that I had aimed to do, 
'Perchance I'll see achieved by you. 

Thru you I'll &ain those things I prized 
And see my hopes all realized. 
You'll be the man I mi&ht have been; 
Wherein I failed, my boy shall win. 

Oh, little lad with eyes of blue, 
We place our fondest hopes in you. 
If parents' love can au&ht avail, 
In you the &ood must e'er prevail. 

YOUR FATHER. 
(December, 1912. 



24 



"DOROTHY" 

Oh, little &irl with eyes of brown, 
'Twere fitting that a cherub's crown 
Should hover o'er thee, as of yore 
The Baby in the manner wore. 

How full of charm thy winsome ways ! 
How dear to us thy baby days ! 
Could we but keep thee ever thus, 
This life would hold but joy for us. 

^But with a feeling of dismay 
We pause and view that distant day 
When others, too, will idolize 
Our little &irl with dusky eyes. 

Too well we know our love for thee 
Must yield to other love — and he 
Will take our child to share his fate 
And leave us lone and desolate. 

Now, at least, thou art no other's — 
Just thy Father's and thy Mother's ; 
None but we can now caress thee — 
Our's the only love to bless thee. 

I &aze upon thee sleeping, now, 
The peace of childhood on thy brow ; 
A dolly clasped unto thy breast, 
Serene in dreamless, guileless rest. 

Oh, little &irl, my prayer for thee 
Is that thy soul may ever be 
As pure and hallowed as the li&ht 
That lingers on thy face toni&ht. 

YOUR FATHER. 
Christmas, 1912. 



25 



THE SONG OF THE "SLACKER EIGHT" 

(^ein^ the Sentiments of the Ei&ht Unmarried Members 
of the Burlington Rotary Club) 

No one berates us on poker and booze — 

We're as free as the prowling breeze ; 
We come and we &o as we do£-&one choose, 

And we eat where we do&-&one please. 
Unhampered we joyously wend our way, 

And abandonly take our flin£ ; 
And deeply we pity the wretched jay 

Who is tied to an apron-string. 

Chorus: We welcome the status "Barbarian," 
We yearn not for marital strife ; 
Only one thin& beats a '•Rotarian — 
And that's a ^otarian's wife ! 

A wife is a joy (?) of a costly sort, 

A Lod&e has more charm than a home ; 
And little we fancy the so-called sport 

Of rolling-pin crashing on dome. 
Just think of list'nin& to one woman talk 

Each ni&ht for the rest of our lives ! 
That of itself would make any man balk — 

They're not "silent" partners— those wives! 

Chorus: We'll admit we're wild and "Barbarian," 
But say, fellows, this is the life ! 
Only one thin& beats a <TRotarian — 
And that's a ^otarian's wife ! 



26 



THAT BOY OF MINE 

Confiding, guileless, heeding still 
The dictates of parental will; 
And yet at times inclined to brood 
In sullen and defiant mood.— 
With chan&in& voice there stirs in him 
The vagrant impulse, wayward whim; 
Now flaunts his will, now yields to me — 
In sooth, a strange anomaly — 
That boy of mine ! 

And little does it comfort me 
To ar&ue that this thin& must be — 
That boys must learn the ways of men 
And "jump the traces" now and then; 
For sad reflection well has taught 
'Tis &rim experience, dearly bought. — 
<T3y venturing down the "primrose" route 
We learned the "ropes" — but how about 
That boy of mine ? 

Ah, could I lead him, day by day, 
Where pitfalls lurk, and softly say, 
"This place, my boy, was where I strayed 
"Here I despaired — my Mother prayed," 
And thus point out each miry hole 
That yawns to snare his gentle soul. — 
Could I but walk close at his side, 
No vain regrets should e'er deride 
That boy of mine ! 

Oh, gracious God, who £ave to me 
This lad — I ask but this of Thee, 
That I may always understand 
His trials, and not let loose his hand ; 
That I may mould his plastic mind 
In manner gentle, tactful, kind — 
All in accord with Thine own plan, 
And rear into a clean-souled man 
That boy of mine ! 



27 



The classification of the writer in Rotary being "Abstracts," he will be 
pardoned, in conclusion, for "talking shop" in the following, verses : 

THE ABSTRACT OF TITLE 

Making, abstracts is a dry, prosaic calling,, well we know, 
Delving, daily into records made a century ago, 
Tracing, wearily the title from the Patent down to date, 
Thru the maze of suits and transfers that obscure and complicate ; 
Yet for me there's fascination in thus working, in the past, 
And on all the seeming, drudg'ry there's a kind of glamour cast, 
For there's poetry and romance running, thru the tangled chain, 
And there's written in the record much of human joy and pain. 

For, like Gibbon and Macaulay, we're Historians, in our way, 
And we bring, to light transactions of a gone, forgotten day, 
True, we only sketch the outline, but behind it ail there lies 
Quite a bit of human interest that our fancy well supplies ; 
And I love to let that fancy freely roam and weave a tale 
About every deed and mortgage, into each judicial sale ; 
For the records deal with pioneers and homestead farms and homes, 
And we garner many heart-throbs from those dry and musty tomes. 

For in every grim foreclosure lurks a heart-ache, and we sense 
In the Bankruptcy Assignment human misery intense ; 
There is grief in every tax sale, and we seem to hear the wail 
Of the widow and the children robbed of home by Sheriff's Sale. 
Delving, thru the Court proceedings we find interwoven there, 
Couched in formal, legal lingo, much of sorrow and despair, 
And we live again thru all the trials of folks of long, ago — 
Running, thru the chain of title there's a deal of human woe. 

The estate files, torn and tattered — there's a certain something, there 
That is sacred, and we handle them with reverence and care, 
And they help us to determine how the owner's life was spent, 
For he often bares his soul in his Last Will and Testament. 
And in running, thru Partition Suits there plainly will be seen, 
In the squabbles of the children, much that's grasping,, low and mean, 
For in fighting for a dead man's wealth the baser feelings breed — 
Running, thru the chain of title there's a deal of human greed. 

And in poring, o'er the records that pertain to real estate, 

Setting, forth the imperfections that impair and complicate, 

Comes the thought of my soul's record, and the mess I've made of it, 

And I long, to change some things that the Recording, Ansel's writ; 

And I wonder, when the tangled chain is done, and I have died, 

And the Abstract of my Life is duly closed and certified, 

And the Great Exam'ner scans each fatal flaw and grave defect, 

Will He waive those imperfections in my record — or reject? 



28 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
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